Catherine
by Remainsofthe
Summary: After Miss Kenton's death her daughter Catherine visits Stevens at Darlington Hall.


_Disclaimer: The characters described in this story were created by and are the property of Kazuo Ishiguro. I'm not making any money out of this._

_AN: I've always been struck by the short passage in _The Remains of the Day _where Miss Kenton asks Stevens to visit her daughter: _

"Although I explained that it was unlikely I would pass through that part of Dorset, Miss Kenton continued to press me, saying: 'Catherine's heard all about you, Mr Stevens. She'd be so thrilled to meet you.'"

_I was wondering what exactly Miss Kenton had told her daughter about Stevens and how Catherine would really feel about him. And then I suddenly had this idea for a story where Catherine visits Stevens after her mother's death (sorry for this, but I'm afraid I had to kill her off for it to work)._

_For many corrections and valuable suggestions my thanks go to Zircon._

**Catherine**

The house is grander than I expected: grander and more beautiful. My surprise at that is actually strange, since whenever my mother spoke of Darlington Hall she did nothing but impress its greatness and beauty on me. As a child I was dutifully awed and imagined myself as a princess roaming that grand house and its grounds, and my mother as queen, holding sway over an army of maids and footmen. But as I grew up I somehow stopped believing that it could be that wonderful. And as I became aware of the shadow it cast over my parents' marriage, I started to resent it. I disparaged it, at first only to myself, and then, sometimes, in my mother's presence. To hurt her, I suppose.

There's a gravel road which winds through the vast grounds. The bus from the railway station dropped me not far from the Hall's wrought iron gates and I've been walking for some time now. Longer than I expected, actually. For a visit like this, I'm wearing my very best shoes, and I haven't walked them in properly so my heels have started rubbing.

Still, the view is worth the discomfort. Moments ago I turned around one of this gravel road's bends, and I was rather dramatically presented with my first sight of Darlington Hall. A calculated effect, of course, but a very striking one nevertheless. So here I have stopped for a few moments to take in the sight of the house. It fits into its surroundings as if it were an organic part of the landscape and the bright winter sun gives a warm glow to its yellow sandstone walls. Whatever my feelings about this place, there is no denying that it is beautiful.

And I feel proud, because my mother basically _ran_ this grand house. And I also feel a bit daunted. She achieved a great deal at an early age, and with that I will never be able to compete. That was one of the things that always separated us. Her ambition – the need to accomplish something, to be part of something greater than herself. That and her restlessness. Or probably more unhappiness than restlessness.

My mother was furious when she found out I wanted to get married so young. Worried that I would be completely dependent on John, that I was throwing my life away before ever accomplishing something for myself. But I was not like her. I didn't have her ambitions; I never felt the need for the independence she always seemed to crave. I just wanted to be with John, have a family and maybe some job on the side. And perhaps, deep down, one of the reasons why I wanted to get married so soon was to spite her, to show her how different from her I was. That I _really_ wanted a family, and would make it work too.

Something we definitely shared was a short temper. When I told her that John and I were getting married our talk got more and more heated until, with tears in my eyes, I just blurted out, "I'm _not you_, Mum! I love him, and I will be happy with him." That silenced her.

I recall how my mother drew in a sharp breath and looked away from me, her jaw working. I felt triumphant, but only for a few seconds. Then my anger dissipated and I just felt rotten, seeing how much I had hurt her.

"I'm sorry, Mum," I said haltingly.

She turned back to look at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and I felt even worse. "I know," she said after a few moments. "Come here." And she drew me into a tight embrace. We both cried for a few minutes, and when we parted again I knew that I had won.

And that was when she told me about her and Mr Stevens.

Of course I had known about him before that. Since my childhood he had featured in nearly all the stories my mother so liked to tell about Darlington Hall. It was only when I grew older that I realized that there was something potentially troubling about the fact that my mother was so keen on talking about him. And that she never told those stories when my father was present.

I remember a time - I think I was eleven years old - when I overheard one of the rows between them. It was a Sunday during the summer and my parents thought that I was out playing with my friends. Usually they tried not to quarrel in front of me. But I had returned early and now paused in front of the door, listening to their raised but still rather muffled voices, my heart pounding like mad, a terrible tight feeling in my chest. Part of me wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave, or hurry up into my room and hide under my blanket. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to move.

And as I stood there, my father's voice took on a new sharpness: a volume that lifted it from its muffled anger into something more hateful. I hardly recognised it at first: "If you are so unhappy here, Sally, why don't you just go back to your precious Darlington Hall and your precious Mr Stevens?"

I recall that there was silence after that. I don't know if that was because my mother's answer was so low I didn't hear it, or because she didn't say anything.

"I see," my father went on after a while, in a very cold and strangely triumphant tone. "He didn't want you, Sally, did he? He never wanted you. Just always remember that."

And then the kitchen floor creaked as if someone was moving, and I snapped out of my petrified stance and fled down the hall, out of the house.

And from that day on I hated Mr Stevens. I held him responsible for the fact that my parents' marriage was not what it should have been, not what I thought my friends' parents' marriages were like. And I resented my mother for giving in to that feeling, for not committing to my father and me.

I remember I was angry with her for a long time, until I left home at seventeen and gained some distance from the whole muddle. Before that, I let her feel my resentment and sometimes even contempt. And I know that she suffered with it, because I truly think she made a great effort to make her marriage work, and she hated to hurt me and my father. But although it was not all bad, and we had our good times as a family, it just never worked out.

So when, that day we argued about me getting married, she at last told me about Mr Stevens, I was not very keen on hearing the story. By that time my hatred of him had somewhat lessened, but I simply didn't want to know about this man whom I still held partly responsible for my parents' misery. But my mother insisted on telling me, and then my image of her relationship with Mr Stevens was turned on its head and my curiosity was piqued without me wanting it to be.

I had always thought that my mother and Mr Stevens had been involved romantically – that they'd had some kind of affair – and that this involvement had not worked out, leaving my mother to marry my father for lack of any better alternative. Or something like that. I had not pictured it in great detail, to be honest, because it was a distressing thought at best. I also had no clear idea of the infamous Mr Stevens, apart from my mother's stories and a few snide remarks I had picked up over the years from my father. I knew however what he looked like. My mother had a picture of him, buried deep down in her sewing basket. I had happened upon it by chance when I had been looking for sewing silk. It was a photograph taken at some kind of celebration, perhaps Christmas or New Year's Eve, showing Lord Darlington with a group of young maids and footmen. And in the middle of it there stood my mother, young and rather beautiful in a nice flowing dark dress, and smiling with a radiance I had only seldom seen. And next to her was an older man, a little taller than her, looking rather ordinary but standing very upright in his formal suit. He was not smiling but staring straight at the camera. Hardly a romantic hero.

But even so, I remember I had always thought that they'd had something of an intimate relationship. So when she confessed to me that, in fact, nothing had ever happened, I was flabbergasted.

"You mean to tell me," I said haltingly, "you two never were together?"

"Oh Cathy," she replied with a sad smile, and I noticed that she was blushing and that was even more disconcerting. "No, we never were together."

I shook my head in disbelief. "You're telling me you don't even know if he loved you in the first place?" There was accusation in my words because I was shocked about the possibility that she might have made our lives a misery for nothing. My mother stiffened for a second. Then she slumped and looked very tired. "No, I never knew. And that is the problem, you see."

Oh yes, I saw. Had my mother known for sure that this man did not have any feelings for her she could have made a clean break and gone on with her life. And if, conversely, she had known that he indeed loved her, I think she would have had the strength to leave my father and return to Darlington Hall. But as it was, she never found any kind of resolution.

"But why did you never ask him?"

She just shook her head. "Those were different times. And in service, there are different rules." Her eyes took on a faraway look. "It's a different world, Cathy, it really is. And Mr Stevens…" She shook her head again. "He was not a man you could ask such a thing."

I think I must have been frowning, because I remember my mother went on,"I tried to, Cathy, believe me. Oh how I tried. Thinking back, it sometimes seems comical how much I tried." She laughed, a bit self-disparagingly. "I pushed and pushed and pushed, increasingly desperate, to get some kind of reaction from him, some kind of declaration. But it was like beating your head against a brick wall."

She was looking down at her hands, and when I followed her gaze I saw that she was kneading them, her knuckles white with the tension. I swallowed. It was hard to see her in such distress.

"But there must have been something," I pressed on after a while. "Or you wouldn't have been so insistent."

She looked up at me again. "Oh yes, there were signs that there was some kind of... attraction between us. At least I thought there were. And I still do, apart from very bleak moments when I wonder if I was imagining things." She huffed a harsh laugh. "There certainly was a lot of tension. But don't get me wrong, for a long time I was happy with the way things were. Our relationship had its up and downs, but it still was a good one. We respected and trusted each other. And when you are in the position I was in, and he was, at the top of such a household, there are not many opportunities for making friends. So I think we were both grateful for the understanding we had achieved."

She smiled wistfully. "And I thought that with time he might soften up, give some clear indications that he...wanted more. But he never did and so I never could be sure. And when I got to a certain age, I just had to know. Then your father came along and proposed to me. And I thought that, now or never, surely now Mr Stevens would have to say something." She drew in a ragged breath and her eyes had that remote look again, as if she was looking at things in the past. "But it went all ghastly wrong, and we were hurting each other worse than ever before. Mr Stevens – he made it very clear that he didn't care if I left. And then I did just that. To spite him, more than anything else. To hurt him. And then I found myself married, far away from Darlington Hall. And the only one who hurt was me."

I remember I was silent for a while. "And you still only call him Mr Stevens," I mused at last.

She gave a sad laugh. "It's rather ridiculous, isn't it? But I never had the right to call him anything else."

I hesitated, then asked, "What is his first name?"

"James," she replied, very gently. "It's James."

We remained silent for a few minutes, not looking at each other. I remember the silence stretched, both tense and companionable at the same time. When my mother spoke again, she actually made me jump because that silence had wrapped itself around both of us. "See, Cathy, I know this is no excuse for the mess I made of my marriage to your father. But I thought you should know about this before… before you get married yourself."

I was ready to flare up again, but she went on, "I know that you love John, and that he loves you. I'm not saying that your situation is remotely like mine. I just want you to think carefully about what you're doing before you get married, because if it doesn't work out it will make you very unhappy, and you will hurt people you never wanted to hurt."

There were tears in her eyes again, and I felt a great pain for her, and also for me and my father. "I know, Mum," I said. "Thanks for telling me. I promise I will think about it."

And she smiled, rather crookedly, and said, "I'm glad, Cathy. And happy for you, I truly am." And she stood up and left the room.

I'm getting closer to the house and I'm wondering how I'm supposed to get in. Not through the main door: I'm very sure that would be inappropriate. I have to smile as I think what my mother would say about such a notion. Although she was in many ways a very independent and modern woman, she could never leave behind her years in service. I don't think she ever wanted to. But I have no idea where the staff entrance is, and I don't want to walk around the large house trying every door.

Perhaps I could find someone to help me? But it's the middle of January, and the large grounds are deserted. I have not met anyone yet.

Who knows, perhaps nobody is home? It annoys me, but the closer I get to the house, the more nervous I become. Actually I've been nervous since I left John and Sarah this morning and boarded the train to get here, but until now I was able to push that away. John of course had offered to come with me, but this is something I have to do on my own. And it was so convenient, with us visiting Ben and Mary in Oxford and Sarah having all these other children to play with so I could easily go away for a day. But the closer I get to actually meeting Mr Stevens, the more foolish the whole business seems. I could have simply posted the letter; there was no need to bring it in person. What on earth was I thinking, coming here just like that? After all my showing up at Darlington Hall without any previous announcement is incredibly impolite and Mum would be terrified that her daughter could do such a thing. I thought about contacting Mr Stevens, of course, but finally I decided against it. I suppose the reason I didn't do it was because then I would definitely have to come and face him. As it is, I could still just give the letter to a servant and leave without seeing him.

What's this man to me, anyway? What has he ever done but made my mother's and my family's life a misery? And I try to conjure up the anger I've nurtured for so many years - the anger that always went hand in hand with thoughts about Mr Stevens - but it is has dwindled since that day my mother told me about him, and it completely disappeared with her death. All that's left is pain and loss, and the shaky hope that my quest here today might make those things fade at least a little.

I shake my head in annoyance and slow down, taking deep breaths to calm myself. No, I'm here now, and I will see this through. Who knows, he might not even live here anymore. For all I know he might be dead too. His last letter was written nearly six months ago, and he is an old man now.

Those letters... I made sure I found them before my father did. Mother had kept them all, of course, together with a few Christmas cards, neatly stacked and bound with a dark blue ribbon. There were not many, for a correspondence of over twenty years, and I remember vividly how this struck me as sad, as I sat in her room holding this small bundle of letters in my hands. I had no idea what to do with them; I just knew that my father should not find them.

I can't seem to stop losing myself in memories today. Even as I make steady progress towards the house, all I can see is that afternoon at my parents' home just prior to my mother's funeral. Dad had gone to stay with some friends so I was all alone in the house. It was, I remember, an uncommonly sunny day for the season, just like today. Once I'd found that bundle of letters I stared at them for some time. After much hesitation I loosened the ribbon and - heart pounding - I started to read Mr Stevens's letters.

It felt peculiarly intimate, like trespassing, but in fact there was nothing the least bit incriminating in them. Just stories about Darlington Hall and people they both knew, and in between, questions about her and about me, which gave me a jolt. To me these letters, with their precise handwriting and the stilted and old-fashioned language, seemed oddly formal. But of course my mother had treasured them, probably tried to read something between their lines, just as I did. Had she found it? Because, try as I might, I couldn't find much which would have given me hope. And I was wondering if the letters my mother wrote to him had been just like that: bland and heartbreakingly cautious, trying to say something without ever saying anything.

And with that thought, I'm struck by another memory: I remember a day when I was about thirteen. A day when one of Mr Stevens's letters arrived. I think it was the only time when I saw her actually getting one of them. The postmen had handed our mail to me because I happened to take the rubbish out to the dustbin when he arrived, and thus it was I who gave it to her. As soon as her eyes saw the handwriting on the envelope, her face lit up in a way I had never seen. She turned around, taking the letter to another room, but I remember standing there as if struck by lightning, and with a seething anger in my chest.

But my memories are getting all tangled up now. Returning to that afternoon before the funeral, I remember there was only one letter which gave me pause. It was from about five years ago, and – in a rather guarded way – it contained what might have been the offer of a job at Darlington Hall. Mr Stevens wrote about staff problems and sang my mother's professional praise in a way that made me think that he had wanted her to return. Or perhaps I was getting overwrought and was starting to read too much into this? I remember sitting in the room, staring at some flecks of dust dancing in the beams of sunlight which fell through the window, and trying to think back to those months five years ago. My mother had left my father again, this time for good, we had thought. But then of course I had got pregnant, and she had moved back in again. But she had met Mr Stevens, sometime around that time, hadn't she? She had mentioned it in passing, then, but I had been so caught up with my pregnancy I had never thought much about it. I remember when I asked her what had happened she told me they had just talked about old times without touching upon anything more personal, and afterwards I never asked her again and she never mentioned it.

As I revisited those events, holding that letter in my hands, the strangest feeling came over me. I'm not sure why I hadn't put the pieces together before that moment. I found myself wondering: if there had truly been a chance for my mother to return to Darlington Hall, had she given it up because of me?

I remember that my mind was whirling with a mixture of guilt and love and pain. And I'm afraid that was the moment when, for the first time, I broke down, and started to sob helplessly. And it was when I had calmed myself again that I decided that I wanted to come here, to see this place my mother loved so much and to deliver her letter myself. And perhaps to try to get an answer to the question that had haunted her all this time. Haunted me, too. It is rather weird but I have invested more thought in my mother's would-be-relationship than I have ever thought about me and John.

When I had reached this decision I put the letters back together again, and I managed to place them and the photograph I found she still kept in her sewing basket in the coffin without my father noticing. He will lie next to her, eventually, but somehow it felt right that she should have something of Mr Stevens with her too.

After some more minutes of walking I hear noises. I stop, trying to locate them, and then turn left, away from the gravel road, and head into the grounds. After a few yards, behind a row of large rhododendrons, I happen upon what looks like a gardener mending an espalier.

"Excuse me," I say hesitantly, and he lowers his hammer and turns around to face me.

"Miss," he says, and inclines his head in greeting. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Mr Stevens," I tell him with an apologetic smile. "Could you tell me if he's still employed here?"

"Mr Stevens, of course he is," he says and looks at me in a rather curious way. I suppose that not many young women come to ask for the head butler.

"If you like, Miss, I could take you to him," the gardener offers.

I smile at him in relief. "That would be very kind. But I don't want to keep you from your work."

"Oh, that's no problem, Miss." And he lays down his hammer and leads me back to the gravel road.

There is silence for a few moments and I feel uncomfortable, not knowing what to talk to him about. I'm certainly not keen on explaining what brings me here. But then I start asking him things about the grounds and he answers enthusiastically enough.

He leads me around the house and in a few more minutes we are standing in front of what seems to be the servants' entry. He rings and shortly after a young girl, who must be some sort of maid, appears. He informs her that I'm an acquaintance of Mr Stevens (which I never said, but I don't correct him), and that I have some business with him.

The girl scrutinizes me, her look just as curious as the gardener's. And I remember that my mother told me that the first thing Mr Stevens impressed on every new servant was that private calls were not permitted. I have to smile. Lord knows what gossip there'll be circulating tonight.

"I'm Mary Watson," the girl says, answering my smile. "I'll take you to Mr Stevens."

"I'm Mrs Catherine Jones," I tell her, hoping that my married honorific will help curtail some of that serving staff gossip. "Thank you very much."

"Oh, don't mention it. Well, come on in," she says, turns, and when the gardener has closed the door behind me she starts to lead me through a maze of small passageways and up and down stairs until I'm thoroughly confused.

At last she stops in front of a door and my heart is beating like a drum. I suppose if I could I would run away now. But she's already knocking, and after a muffled acknowledgement she enters. I can't see into the room because the door is still half closed, but I hear her say, "Mr Stevens, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a young woman here to see you."

A short pause, then a male voice asks, rather nonplussed, "A young woman, Mary?"

"Yes, sir. A Mrs Jones."

More silence, then he eventually says, "Very well, I will see her." And Mary is out of the room and opening the door so I can enter. And then she closes it behind me and I am standing there, looking at the man opposite me who is rising from his desk to greet me.

The room is rather dim, but I can see him well enough. He looks very much like he does on the photograph. Older, of course – he must be around seventy now – and there is much grey in his hair and deep lines on his face. But his posture is still very upright and his surprisingly blue eyes are clear and piercing.

"Mrs Jones," he says with a frown, "I'm not sure I know..." But then he falters as I step into the light coming from the small window, and he stares at me, his eyes wide and his face white as if he has seen a ghost.

And I suppose in a way he has. Because people say I look very much like my mother. There is not much of my father in me, at least in my appearance.

"I'm Catherine Jones, Mr Stevens," I explain. "Mrs Sarah Benn's daughter. It is very kind of you to see me."

"Oh, I see," he says, still staring at me. Then he frowns and seems to collect himself. "Excuse me," he adds, a little flustered, and comes around the desk. "It's just that you look remarkably like your mother."

"I know," I say with a small smile. And I recall that she was barely older than I am now when she came to work here, to basically run the house. Not on her own, of course, but still. And again it daunts me, and makes me proud at the same time. And I wonder if he's thinking the same thing: remembering my mother as first he knew her. She always told me that he made a point of reminding her about her youth and inexperience when they began their service together. At any and every opportunity.

"Please, let me help you with your coat," he offers, the perfect butler, and I unbutton it and let him help me take it off. He puts it over a nearby chair, and when he turns back to me I see him freeze and stare at me again, and this time his face is even whiter than it was before.

He has seen that I'm in mourning.

"Mr Stevens," I say quietly, "I am very sorry to inform you that my mother passed away two weeks ago."

He's standing very still; only a muscle at his mouth is twitching. And then his eyes get bright, and for just a split second there is an expression of such anguish on his face that it takes my breath away. He turns around, his body painfully rigid. And I look away, to give him at least some semblance of privacy. I wonder if I should leave him alone for a few moments, but that would mean acknowledging that he is troubled, and if I know anything about this man, then that would be the wrong thing to do. So I look around the room, seemingly all occupied in studying what must be the butler's pantry. And I remember that my mother spent a lot of time in here, and I feel a great sadness sweep over me.

It's a rather dark room, and the brown curtains certainly don't help. There seems to be nothing personal in here. Only on the mantelpiece there are a few postcards, and three photographs. One is rather old, showing a man in a servant's uniform and two boys. And I wonder if that is Mr Stevens as a child with his father. The other one is of Lord Darlington. On this he looks much younger than on the pictures I have seen, very aristocratic and rather good looking. And then there is a photograph I know, the one my mother kept all those years. Of Lord Darlington together with herself and Mr Stevens and all those other servants. And her smile on it pierces my heart so I have to look away before I'm losing it.

A noise makes me turn around. Mr Stevens has returned to his desk. He seems composed enough, if rather strained, and I'm grateful. I have no idea what I'd have done if he'd broken down. I sit down on the chair in front of the desk and watch him settle in his chair again.

"I am very sorry for your loss," he says. "May I ask, how..."

"It was a brain tumour," I explain, relieved to hear that my voice sounds steady. "It was all rather sudden. She only found out a few weeks ago. She didn't have to suffer long."

"I am glad." He looks away from me, in the direction of the mantelpiece, and his eyes have a remote look as if he's not quite here anymore.

And perhaps he wonders why she didn't tell him. She could have, of course. I asked her about it in those last days, when they had sent her home to die and she was lying in her bed staring at the ceiling. She was remarkably peaceful, then, serene even. But when I mentioned Mr Stevens, and the possibility of telling him about her condition, I remember she shook her head vehemently. "Oh no, Cathy, certainly not!" She drew in a ragged breath and looked down on her hands which were folded on the blanket. "What use is there in doing that, now," she added quietly. "I couldn't do this to your father. And I don't want Mr Stevens to see me like that. He's...he's not good in confronting death," and she smiled sadly.

And although she didn't mention it, perhaps she was also afraid that he wouldn't come, for whatever reason. And that her memories of their time together - all those signs she'd taken as expressions of his feelings for her, as unsatisfactory as they were - were better kept as they were. Better to have something to hold on to, however small, than to be rejected for good now, at the end of her life.

But even though my mother refused to let Mr Stevens know about her dying, she certainly wasn't done with him yet.

The day after I had suggested she tell him about her condition she gave me a letter addressed to him. "Please, make sure that he gets it, when I'm gone," she said, and I nodded with a tight throat and promised her.

"I might even go there myself," I said, in a forced light way. "After all the stories you told me about Darlington Hall, I think it would be nice to actually see it."

Her eyes brightened and she smiled at me. "I'd like that, Cathy," she whispered. "Say hello from me. But don't be too hard on him."

And I glanced away, not able to stand the emotions on her face. "I won't, Mum."

So that's why I'm here now, in Mr Stevens's pantry. He still has this absent look on his face and so, after a few more moments, I say "Mr Stevens," and with a start he returns from wherever he was and looks at me again.

"Mr Stevens, my mother gave me something for you." I reach for my handbag and start foraging in it to give him some time to come to terms with this news. When I have found it I reach over and place the letter in front of him, on top of his desk strewn with bills and lists and what not. Things my mother would have been familiar with. The envelope is larger than ordinary. Thick, creamy paper – she always had a soft spot for nice stationery. On it is written "To Mr Stevens" in her orderly handwriting, but it is shaky because she had trouble writing in those last days. God only knows how long it took her to compose the letter.

He doesn't take it up, just stares at it as if it might bite him, and I feel a great wave of sympathy and somehow want to make this easier for him.

"Please rest assured that I have no idea what's in that letter," I tell him. And it is true. Of course I am curious, but I'd never have read it. "And... and please also rest assured that, to the end, my mother never felt anything but the greatest respect and friendship for you."

The understatement of the century.

He nods mechanically, still staring down at the letter. "Oh, Miss Kenton," he finally whispers, so softly I'm not sure I have even heard it. He takes up his hand and rubs his brow for a few moments, and I look away again, to give him the time he needs to compose himself.

I start when I hear a ragged breath and turn around in concern. "Are you all right, Mr Stevens?" I ask before I can stop myself.

His eyes are bright but his face is a mask now, so tense that the forced smile he gives me seems like a grimace. "Oh, quite all right. Just a little tired." And he gets up and turns around to look out of the window. "I am sorry," he says with his back to me. "I'm being rather a bad host, and after all the trouble you took to come here."

"Not at all," I reassure him. "My mother told me so much about Darlington Hall, I was happy to have a chance to visit it at last."

"Did she indeed," he mutters, still staring out of the window into the uncommonly sunny January afternoon.

"Oh yes. She loved the house very much, Mr Stevens." I have to swallow because my throat is very tight and I see how his shoulders stiffen. But I go on nevertheless, because that's what my mother would have done, I'm sure of it, and I owe it to her. "I am certain that the years she spent here...with you...were the happiest of her life."

Silence descends between us. He is still looking out of the window and so, after what seems like some time, I say, "I'll leave now, Mr Stevens. I thank you for taking the time to see me."

He nods, then turns around, looking rather stiff and composed again. I could go now, without hurting him even more, but there's still the question I have to ask, the question I owe my mother.

"Mr Stevens," I go on. "There is something I'd like to ask you. I know it is a rather personal issue, but it's a question which occupied my mother for all these years." And I don't say it, but what I think is that surely now, after her death, she deserves some honesty.

He draws in his breath and there is a flicker of panic in his eyes, but before he can balk I ask very gently, "Mr Stevens. Did you have any feelings for my mother?"

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together. But when he opens his eyes again after a few moments the mask is gone, and he just looks old and tired and very sad.

"Yes. I...did have feelings for your mother." His voice is raw but so full of tenderness that I have to avert my eyes.

"But why did you never tell her?" I hear myself ask, still not looking at him because I can't trust my own face now.

There is silence, but just when I think he won't answer he goes on haltingly: "I just...couldn't. Not then. And when I met her later..."

He stops abruptly and I look back at him in surprise and what I have suspected when I read his letters becomes a dark certainty.

"You met her five years ago," I state. He nods but seems rather reluctant to go on. "You...wanted her to come back with you?" I prompt him.

He hesitates, then sighs. "Yes, I did. We had some staff problems, and I thought there might be a chance to persuade her to come back." He falters. "To correct the mistakes that I had made," he adds softly.

"But she told you that I was pregnant," I state, an aching feeling in my chest. "And that because of that she couldn't go back into service."

"Yes, she did."

I hesitate, but I have to know. "And so you didn't tell her about your feelings because you knew that would tear her apart. And you didn't want her to have to choose between me and you..."

There is a single, hot tear running down my cheek, but I barely notice it over the pain in my chest and my need to look at his face.

"No, I didn't want that," he says simply. He looks down on his hands. "It was too late," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Too late. And what use would there have been anyway?" After some moments he glances up again. "Please don't trouble yourself with these thoughts," he says, his voice strained. "What's done is done, and there is nothing we can do about it. There is no use thinking about the past all the time, wondering what might have been, is there?"

But the desperation in his eyes belies his words, and I only nod and turn to put on my coat so I don't have to look at him.

"I will show you out," he eventually says, rushes out of the room and down the corridor, and I hurry after him without him looking back at me a single time.

When he opens the entrance and I step out into the cold, clear winter afternoon, it's like a release. I turn around, hoping that my feelings don't show on my face.

"Thank you again, Mr Stevens." I say. "It was very nice to meet you."

His face is tense but he gives me a shaky smile. "Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come here in person."

"Oh, not at all." I hesitate, then add, "Mr Stevens. The letters you sent my mother... I put them in the coffin with her."

He breathes in raggedly and his eyes take on that faraway look again. "That was most kind of you," he manages.

I shake my head. "Not at all. I know she would have wanted it that way."

He just stares at me and I have the feeling that he's not seeing me, but my mother. And I know I have to go now, because if I don't I'll start crying and what use would there be in that?

So I say, "Good-bye, Mr Stevens," and he snaps out of his reverie and murmurs "Good-bye, Mrs Jones," and I turn and walk away from Darlington Hall, feeling his eyes on me until I turn a corner and the tears start to run down my face.

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_I hope you liked the story! Please let me know what you think about it._


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